


till I'm buried in my grave

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Memories, Past Relationship(s), Self-Harm, Talon Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Trans Male Character, Trans Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: In the years to come he will remember all the small details of her body, like the soft hairs under her navel and the sharp breath she sucks in when he pulls down the waistband of her boxers. The rest will fade like a bruise, but this - the tender moments they found with each other  - will stay unspoiled and forever previous, as it will for her on the nights she gets lonely, too.if you ever change your mind / about leaving me behind / bring it to me / bring your sweet loving / bring it on home to me





	till I'm buried in my grave

Gabe runs his hand up her thigh. When Ana smiles at him, her dark eyes wrinkle at the corners. His lips move like the ocean to the shore, down and over her hard muscles and stretch marks.

In the years to come he will remember all the small details of her body, like the soft hairs under her navel and the sharp breath she sucks in when he pulls down the waistband of her boxers. The rest will fade like a bruise, but this - the tender moments they found with each other - will stay unspoiled and forever previous, as it will for her on the nights she gets lonely, too.

His mouth finds the center of gravity between her legs, and she closes her thighs around his head with a sigh. She always offers to reciprocate, but he doesn't need to be touched to be satisfied. He feels the pleasure thrum inside her when he rolls her clit under his tongue, but he couldn't open himself to another person like that, not with the body he has.

Slowly he licks the sweat from her skin. He takes her labia between his teeth and tugs gently. She responds with a half-swallowed sound that he coaxes out with his fingers. She moves against him as clay takes shape for the potter - soft but firm, warm and wet, slick all over his hands and face. With the taste of her in his mouth, he leans forward and kisses her, pushing his hand through the tresses of her long hair.

When he pulls away, Ana's hair covers her face. She says something under her breath that he can't hear. He tries to part her hair, but there's more underneath.

The first time he kissed a girl, he was thirteen, wearing combat boots under the dress his mother forced on him. It was after church. Her name escapes him, but he remembers her green eyes and how they never met his afterwards.

At his quinceañera he locked himself in the bathroom and carved the words _FUCK GOD_ on the inside of his left arm. He was young and angry. He listened to loud music and wore all black solely to scare old people. It was cliché, but it was his life, his real and desperate pain. The scars are still there.

When he told Ana about the scars, she told him about her hair. How she used to pull and pick. How she had to comb her hair in a specific way to cover the bald patches.

More hair. It comes away in his hands. He works faster and faster, pulling away clumps of gray hair, until he finds her eyes. Ana is looking right at him. Her eyes are green.

He wakes up, and she is gone. All the warmth inside him is gone. There's no one but the Reaper and the sterile pump of embalming fluid inside his corpse.

The air in his room is cold as a morgue. He remembers binding in the hot windless L.A. summer and the first trickle of sweat down his chest that meant he’d need to dash into the bathroom in a couple hours to clean up before he got a rash. Now he has to take care not to ferment in the heat or the smell of death would succeed in killing him where the explosion couldn't.

Impressions of his dream move as intangible as shadows under his eyelids. He blinks away the afterimage of Ana’s face, wondering, with a flash of emotion he quickly smothers, if she could ever look him in the eye again.


End file.
